


Replace the Need with Love

by Aviatricks



Category: Batman (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Gen, Hostage Situations, Some Fluff, also the major character death is jason so, baby birb growing up, injuries, little bit of an AU, oh boy tagging is hard, re-imagined some first meetings and so on, shitty sentimental dream sequences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 00:37:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7736248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aviatricks/pseuds/Aviatricks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn’t matter whether Bruce would cut him loose or not, Tim can’t let things ever get to that point.  He has to be better.  He has to be the best he can be, or Bruce will lose himself again.  Tim can’t let Dick down like that.  Tim can’t let Jason down like that.</p>
<p>Tim can’t let Bruce down like that.</p>
<p>(Or, Tim's Robin-career is full of angst and I enjoy it)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Replace the Need with Love

**Author's Note:**

> (Title from Kid Fears by Indigo Girls, which is a high quality angst song)
> 
> Okay, so I'm very, very, very (very, very) nervous about posting this since it's my first angsty thing. This started out as a 'Five times Tim gets caught and one time he does the rescuing' but then it became this giant hulking monster that basically spans Tim's whole Robin-run and it way more angsty than I ever intended it to be. 
> 
> Like I said, very nervous, so if you spot any mistakes or have any suggestions please let me know! :)
> 
> (And obviously these are DC's characters and I don't actually make money off of them, which is unfortunate)
> 
> Enjoy! (Hopefully!)

It’s all Tim’s fault, really.

Bruce had told him to plant a bug on Dent’s car.  It should have been an easy job, and the fact that Bruce was letting him go alone was kind of a big deal.  But Tim screwed it up anyways.  Two-Face caught him and he’s tied to a chair in a closet someplace and he’s probably going to die a terrible death and Bruce will never get another Robin and it will be _all Tim’s fault_.

Okay, _focus_.

He’s tied securely to a wooden chair- hand and foot.  By moving around he’s figured out that he’s in a pretty small space- probably a closet.  

(And he’s _definitely_ not thinking about Jason, tied up and beaten to death in a warehouse.  That would be unhelpful.  So he’s not going to think about it.   _At all_.)

Tim’s training thus far has mainly been focused on avoiding falling into these situations, not how to get out of them.  The little bit of escapology he’s learned on his own isn’t enough to get him out of the tight ropes, and they took his utility belt, so he doesn’t have a knife to cut himself free.

(Jason couldn’t get free.  Jason, who had so much more training than Tim, couldn’t save himself, and he died _he died_ \- but Tim isn’t thinking about that, not at all.)

Without any warning, the door to the closet is yanked open, and Tim is blinded by the light.  He feels someone snapping handcuffs on his wrists and cutting him free from the chair.  Once his feet are free, he blindly kicks out.   He hears a curse, and feels a moment of victory before someone backhands him.

Two rough hands grab each of his arms (there are two thugs then, at least) and he’s half-dragged/half-marched down a hallway that he can barely see because of the spots still dancing in his eyes.  

If Tim had to guess, he would say they’re in one of the warehouses that Dent’s gangs use a lot.  The wooden floor is creaky under his boots, and if he strains, he thinks he can hear… gunshots?  Yelling?

(He really hopes that he’s hearing those things, and that it means Bruce or Dick showed up, and he’s _not_ going to get brutally murdered.  That would be nice.)

His eyes are starting to clear, and Tim can see that the hallway they’re in has lots of doors leading off into what he assumes are old offices or closets.  They’re heading for a set of double doors, which he figures leads out onto the main warehouse floor.  And just like he thought, two thugs. 

Tim can definitely hear guns and yelling now.  One of the goons shoves open the doors and they drag Tim into a warzone.  

He was right in thinking they were in a warehouse.  The high ceilings leave room for stacks of boxes, which are likely filled with all kinds of nasty stuff that Two-Face wants on the street.  Hanging lights illuminate the cleared area where the fighting seems to be taking place, just in front of the doors Tim came from.  Assorted goons are shouting and firing into the shadows.  Tim can’t actually _see_ Batman or Nightwing, but he knows they’re around because of the batarangs and smoke pellets discarded on the floor.  

So distracted by assessing his surroundings, Tim hardly even notices that the goons are steering him over to where Two-Face is hiding, crouched behind a stack of boxes and holding a rifle.  When he catches sight of Tim and the goons, he stands, his face caught in an eternal snarl. 

“Gimme the kid,” Dent commands. “Then get the hell out there and _shoot him_.”  

Tim is going to take a stab in the dark and say that ‘him’ is Bruce.  Two-Face grabs him by the front of his uniform and waves his rifle at the thugs.  

One of the goons pales, but the other drags him off by his collar. 

Tim glares up at Two-Face (he’s _Robin_ and if Two-Face kills him, he’s at least going to go down fighting).  “I know twos are your thing, but a double sentence for smuggling and attempted murder is gonna be _killer_.” 

“Shut up,” Dent growls.  He drops the rifle and pulls out a pistol from his (utterly ridiculous) suit.  He spins Tim around, grabs his left shoulder, and jams the gun into the small of his back. “Walk.”  

“And Nightwing said you were _chatty_ ,” Tim grumbles.  The pressure on the gun increases and he’s forced to walk slowly into the center of the concrete floor.  The guns continue to fire until Two-Face raises his own pistol and shoots into the air.  

Quiet descends on the warehouse.  Two-Face pulls Tim closer and shoves the gun under his chin. “Game over, Bats.  Come out now or the kid gets it.”  

The cold metal of the gun digs into his jaw and Tim tries not to wince.  So Two-Face’s plan is to lure out Batman.  And then probably shoot him.  Which is _not_ going to happen, not on Tim’s watch. 

(Of course, Tim realizes that, since this whole thing is his fault, it’s kind of ridiculous for him to be acting like _he’s_ going to be the big hero of the day.) 

One of the shadows detaches itself from the wall, with only the slight flutter of a cape.  Even though they’ve been working together for a while now, it still takes Tim’s breath away a little to see Bruce’s dramatic entrances.  The bat leaps down from the darkness, then crouches low to the floor.  He rises, his cape drawn around him.  He glares at Two-Face and says nothing, which is more frightening than just about anything on earth.    

Two-Face doesn’t seem all that impressed though (which is probably why he’s spending most of his time in an asylum for the criminally insane).  “The other one too.  Nightwing.”  

Bruce doesn’t move a muscle, but Dick comes flipping down from the darkness.  He puts a hand on his hip and gives Two-Face a cocky grin.  “Aw, miss me?  That’s _too_ sweet.”  

Dick’s light demeanor doesn’t change Bruce’s stony one (which is how it’s always been, and it makes Tim a little happy about all this, to see them slipping back into their old roles as partners).  Bruce takes a menacing step forward, “Let the boy go.”  

“Heh.”  Tim can’t see Dent’s face, but the villain tightens his grip on him and re-positions the gun, shoving it against the side of Tim’s head.  Tim lets out a groan as Two-Face jostles against the bump from when he got knocked unconscious.  Bruce tenses and Dick’s smile dims.  

The goons are readying their guns again, trained on Batman and Nightwing.  

And Tim _moves_.  

He slams his heel down onto Dent’s foot, as hard as he can.  Two-Face howls and his grip slacks.  Tim drops to the ground rolls towards Dick and Bruce, twisting so that his bound hands are in front of him.  He hears gunfire, but he’s got to keep moving, got to keep going…  

Getting to his feet is hard, with his hands cuffed and his cape twisted around him, and he overbalances.  But hands are there to catch him, and he looks up to see Dick grinning at him.  Over Nightwing’s shoulder, he can see Bruce, tearing through the goons, who are desperately trying to shoot him.  Two-Face is making a run for it, although Batman is almost done with the thugs and will be on him in a second.    

“Are you hurt?” 

Tim brings his focus back to Dick, whose brows are furrowed in concern.  Which makes Tim feel even guiltier.  He’s only been working with them a little while, and Dick already worries about him.  What if Tim had gotten himself killed?  Dick doesn’t deserve to have two Robins die under his watch.  

( _Neither does Bruce.)_   

“I’m fine,” Tim says, ducking his head in embarrassment.  “I mean, I have this huge bump on my head from when they knocked me out.  But I don’t think I have a concussion.  But I don’t know, maybe I do.”  

“Babbling, Robin,” Dick says gently, with a quiet laugh.  He takes one of Tim’s wrists, grabbing a lock-pick from his gauntlet.  “One sec and I’ll have you out of these.”  

Tim watches Bruce in the background, throwing himself off a stack of boxes and onto Two-Face’s running figure.  They both go down.  “Thanks for.  Um.  Thanks for coming to get me.”  

Dick looks up from the cuffs and gives Tim a strange look.  “It’s not like we were gonna let him keep you, y’know.”  

Flushing, Tim struggles to explain, “No, it’s just… I mean… it was my fault I got caught, I don’t know…”  

The cuffs spring free and Dick tosses them away.  “Believe me when I say you’re _not_ the first Robin to get nabbed by some idiot with a gun.  It’s kind of the suckiest part of the job.”  

Tim looks at the ground (because he has to be _better_ , he has to prove to Bruce that Robin is worth keeping around) and Dick puts a hand on his shoulder.  “Hey.  We never-” Dick flinches, almost unnoticeable, “We never leave a man behind, okay?”  He smiles, but it’s sad too.  

(Tim thinks he would do just about anything to bring Jason back, to stop Jason from dying.  He would give anything for Jason to be alive and happy and for Bruce and Dick and Alfred to not walk around like the world fell apart on their shoulders.  But all he can do is be Robin.  And, most days, he is very much aware that it’s not enough.)  

“Let’s head home, yeah?” Dick stands and looks down at him. “I’m assuming you don’t need carried?”  

Tim stands a little too quickly (and the world tilts a little, but he’s probably fine).  “What about Batman?”  

Dick looks over his shoulder to the groaning pile of handcuffed goons.  Two-Face and Batman have disappeared. “He told me to get you home.  I think he wants to have a long chat with Harv.”  

Tim isn’t sure what that’s about, but he follows Dick towards where the Batmobile must be parked.  Dick is chattering, something about how Agent A will want to check Tim over and maybe he made cookies, because that’s the thing Dick misses most about Gotham.  Tim’s mostly still just processing, and he hardly even notices when they reach the Batmobile, the warehouse giving way to an alley and cool night air.  

“Hey, Robin?”

Tim looks up (it’s still hard getting used to responding to that).  Dick is by the driver’s side of the long black car, and he tilts his head a little (something he does when he’s nervous).  “You know we’d never just _leave you_ , right?  Batman’s not just going to cut you loose because you make a mistake.”

It’s awful, because Tim is still churning with guilt, and he knows that Dick is reaching out, and he doesn’t want to lie, but he nods anyways.  Dick looks relieved and they both get in the Batmobile.  Dick asks if Tim wants to stop for milkshakes and Tim laughs even though he’s still thinking.

It doesn’t matter whether Bruce would cut him loose or not, Tim can’t let things ever get to that point.  He has to be _better_.  He has to be the best he can be, or Bruce will lose himself again.  Tim can’t let Dick down like that.  Tim can’t let Jason down like that.

Tim can’t let _Bruce_ down like that.

 

* * *

 

Tim gets better.  Sure, Bruce still watches him like he’s going to break at any moment (but that has “more to do with Jason and less to do with Tim” as Dick says).  Every day, every case, Tim gets more experience, moves quicker, hits harder, thinks faster.  When he responds to ‘Robin’ these days, he doesn’t feel like such a fraud.  

They get into a good groove, as Batman and Robin.  Dick returns to Blüdhaven and Tim shoulders the weight of being Bruce’s only partner.  It’s lonely and hard but _someone_ has to do it.  Once or twice, Tim even thinks that he sees Bruce smile a little (but that’s probably wishful thinking).  

Then the Joker resurfaces.

After an escape from Arkham a while back, the clown had been laying low (which makes a lot of sense, considering that Batman put him in a full body cast the last time they met).  But then someone starts spray-painting grins onto all the statues in the city.  That escalates into Joker’s usual chaos, and pretty soon people are dying and parts of the city are burning.

Bruce let Tim help.  At least, until the very last night, when they were planning on raiding Joker’s base.  Bruce wanted him to stay home.

(Batman put the Joker in a body cast for killing Robin.)

And Tim has a pit in his stomach, because Bruce has that dead look in his eyes again, and he moves mechanically.  He looks at Tim and he sees Jason, broken and bleeding.  

Tim is Robin.  Tim can’t let Batman go out into the field alone like that.  

(Tim wins an argument with _Batman_.)

(He really _must_ be Robin.)

It doesn’t matter that Bruce sends him to chase after the henchmen while he goes after the Joker.  Because Tim is _there_ , and he keeps Bruce focused and in the present.  He does his job.

Of course, Gotham never makes it easy.

Tim had been picking his way back to Bruce, the thugs he had been sent after all tied up, the police on their way.  It had just started to rain.

He didn’t see the person who stabbed a needle into his neck, didn’t see who pushed the plunger down.  He doesn’t know who kidnapped him.

But, as he comes to in what seems to be an old toy factory, he thinks he might be able to make an educated guess.

Tim’s alone for now, lying on the dusty floor, but who knows how long that will last.  He’s wrapped in a length of chain that’s so tight he can barely breathe.  No boots, gloves, or belt.

_Bruce must be going insane_.

Twisting as much as he can (which isn’t much), Tim looks around, trying to see if there’s anything useful nearby.  Mostly it’s just crates and creepy dolls and brightly colored toys coated in dust and grime.  

A laugh rolls out of the darkness.  

Tim’s blood runs cold.

( _Is this what Jason felt like?_ )

“I may be a crazy clown off his meds…” the voice seems to be coming from everywhere at once, grating and high-pitched and terrifying.

And then suddenly Joker’s crouching in front of him.  He’s _quick_.

“...but I’m _positive_ I killed you.”

Joker’s face is twisted into a scowl, which Tim is pretty sure is bad.  There’s not much that seems to make him genuinely unhappy.  

Tim lifts his chin in a defiant glare. “Can’t kill Robin.”

The clown’s scowl deepens, and it suddenly hits Tim that he’s _talking to the Joker_.  The biggest mass murderer in Gotham’s history, probably the history of the world.  

(The biggest danger to a Robin.)

“That’s cute, kiddo,” Joker leans in, “But I _distinctly_ remember it.”

_I’ll bet_ , Tim thinks, and it makes him sick.  

Joker grabs the front of his uniform, pulls Tim in close.  He’s starting to smile now, and if a scowl from the Joker is bad, Tim is sure a smile is worse.  “See, breaking that bird was _hilarious_.  Possibly the greatest joke of all time, if I do say so myself.”  He leans in closer, so that they’re practically nose to nose.  “But a joke’s not funny if the punchline is alive and walking around.”

Tim’s throat is dry, and his heart is starting to hammer. “Maybe you’re just not very funny.”

There’s a glint in Joker’s dark eyes, and he throws back his head and gives another one of his chilling laughs.  When he’s done, his grin is wide.  He stares at Tim with that awful smile, immobile, unblinking.  

And then with that same surprising speed, he slams Tim’s head back into the floor.  Stars burst in front of Tim’s eyes, and for a moment he doesn’t even register the clown’s hands curling around his neck.  

But then laughter fills his ears again, and he’s choking and desperately trying to suck in air (and Bruce is going to go insane and this is what Jason must have felt like when he realized when he realized no one was coming that he was going to die).

Blackness closes in on Tim’s vision, and he thinks he might be imagining it when the Joker murmurs, “Unless….”

No one’s choking him anymore, and Tim sucks burning air into his lungs, though the chains are so tight he thinks he might suffocate anyways.  He’s curled up on his side, coughing and desperately trying to catch his breath.  It _hurts_.

He’s vaguely aware of Joker, walking behind him.  The clown is talking animatedly, but Tim can’t make out the words over the sound of his own frantic heartbeat.  

_You’re okay you’re okay you’re not going to die not yet._

_Bruce is on his way, he’ll save you._

(But that’s what Jason thought too.)

Joker’s face appears again in Tim’s blurry vision, smiling widely. “Good news, boy blunder!  I’ve made the decision that destroying your life should wait, y’know, so Batsy can get a good emotional attachment going.  You really dodged a bullet there, kiddo!”

Tim’s regained enough breath to mumble a quiet, “Huzzah.”  It’s hard to be tough though, when he’s shaking and his voice hardly even works.

Nodding his head enthusiastically, Joker’s twirling… something?  Shiny?  Tim’s head hurts, and all he wants to do is sink into unconsciousness (which is probably a bad idea).  

“So, for now I’ll just have to stick to nonlethal schticks,” Joker is babbling.  “So be a good boy, now, stay in school, you hear?”

The next few moments pass like snapshots from a camera.  The Joker stops twirling whatever’s in his hands.  He holds it high.  And then he’s plunging it down.  

Tim screams when the knife goes into his shoulder.  Joker chuckles quietly, standing, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. “That’s a good start, hm?  Well, see you next time, birdbrain!”

Footsteps echo in the darkness and Tim thinks he’s alone, chained up, with the knife stuck in his shoulder.  It _burns_ and somehow Tim thinks that isn’t right.  Stab wounds are supposed to hurt (and it does) but the feeling that fire is spreading through his veins?

_It was poisoned_ , Tim thinks dully.   _Must have been_.

It hurts more than anything Tim’s ever felt before.

Darkness is creeping in on his vision, and Tim’s aware that he should be scared.  He’s _dying_ (no matter what the Joker said about ‘nonlethal’).

(Just like Jason.)

Tim knows he should try to stay awake, for some reason going to sleep would be bad.  But it hurts so bad, and he’s so _tired_ …

“Robin!   _Robin!_ ”

He thinks he hears a voice calling his name (but it’s not really his name, is it?) but it’s too late, it’s too-

 

Jason swings his legs off the edge of the roof, smoke curling out of the cigarette in his mouth.  Below them, the streets of Gotham are busy with lights and people, but up above it’s quiet.  Just the two of them, two Robins.  Tim wraps his cape around him, chilly, but Jason doesn’t seem bothered (even though he doesn’t even have pants).

Tim sits by Jason, gives him a careful look. “Am I dead?”

“Pft,” Jason rolls his eyes, and giving Tim an exasperated look. “Come on, ask a better question.  That one’s boring.”

As the one who may or may not be dead, Tim doesn’t think it’s boring at all, but he still doesn’t press.  “Bruce really misses you.”

Jason exhales, smoke dissipating into the night.  “Yeah.  I mean, I’m glad he has you.  I was scared he was going to get himself killed, the way he was acting.”

Tim doesn’t answer (because this isn’t real, he has no idea what Jason would think about this).  “Joker’s freaky.”

If Jason has any particular feelings towards the man who killed him, Tim can’t tell.  Can’t imagine.  Jason takes the cigarette out of his mouth, looks down at the street. “Yeah, he’s a sick puppy.”  He looks at Tim with a crooked grin, “But that’s why there’s Batman and Robin, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tim says softly.  

Jason opens his mouth, but there’s suddenly a blazing pain in Tim’s shoulder.  He grabs it, groaning.

“The stab wound,” Jason said knowingly. “You’re probably about to wake up.” 

(Honestly Tim wishes he wasn’t- it hurts and he’d rather stay here and talk to Jason).  

“Hey, you’ll be okay,” Jason says, still grinning widely. “Just remember-”

 

The heart monitor speeds up a little as Tim drags his way out of unconsciousness.  His eyes flutter before opening, and even once he’s awake, he still somehow feels asleep.  Tim tries to sit up, which is a huge mistake, and he cries out as something in his shoulder pulls.  

“Woah, there, careful!”  It’s Dick… Dick who should be in Blüdhaven or off with the Titans.  He comes into Tim’s limited view and presses something off to the right, which raises the top of the bed Tim’s in so he’s practically sitting.  Now Tim can see that he’s in the medbay of the Cave, hooked up to machines and an IV. 

“Dick?” He says.  It comes out as a whisper, and Tim wonders what’s wrong with his voice.  

Dick looks exhausted, but he smiles and sits on the bed, “Hey.” 

“What…” Tim has so many questions, and something about his face must cue Dick in on that fact.  

“Don’t try to talk too much… your voice box is pretty bruised, along with the rest of your throat.  You don’t have a concussion, but the back of your head did need a couple stitches.”  

Tim looks down at his shoulder, which is heavily bandaged.  Dick follows his gaze and swallows painfully, “The knife… you lost a lot of blood.  And there was something on it, Bruce had to make an antivenom.  We-” He looks away for a moment.  “We didn’t know if you were gonna make it.” 

That feels strange.  Tim doesn’t feel like he almost died.  He feels terrible and achy and tired, but he doesn’t have any newfound knowledge or sensation of what death is like.  He kind of wants to ask Dick if that’s normal, but it might be weird.  “Joker?”  

Dick’s face clouds, “Bruce had to get you back here… Joker slipped away.  But we’re going to get him, I promise.”  

“Okay,” Tim feels a little smug about that.  Yeah, he feels terrible now, but once Bruce gets ahold of Joker?  What Tim’s going through will probably looks like a picnic to whatever the Batman unleashes on the clown.  “Izzat why you’re not with the Titans?”

The other boy looks back at the floor, and Tim feels like he said something wrong.  Finally, Dick looks back, and his eyes are shining.   

“Tim… when Jason died I was off-planet with the Titans.  I missed his funeral.  I don’t even remember what the last thing he said to me was.  I was on a mission with my best friends and my girlfriend while Jason was being tortured and killed.”  Dick falls silent again, taking a shuddering breath.  

Tim thinks about Jason, who always had a quip, who had so much passion, who always made sure to check on the victims.  Jason, whose favorite color was green, who sometimes took books with him on stake-outs, who broke Bruce’s heart.

(Why did Tim live when Jason didn’t?  Because there’s a part of him, an objective part, that logically looks at the evidence and sees clearly.  Jason Todd was a whole lot more important than Tim Drake ever could be.  Jason Todd saved lives and made Bruce smile on his darkest days and had so much he wanted to do and Tim… well, no one would really miss Tim Drake.)

“Tim, I was terrified that Joker was going to take you too.  I was… I was scared of losing another brother.”

Another brother.

(Of course, Dick and Jason were brothers, but…)

_Another_.

Dick must see the look on Tim’s face and think… well, Tim doesn’t know what he thinks, but Dick’s eyes go wide and he starts talking. “I’m sorry, I know… I know we don’t know each other that well, but-”

“No!” Tim interrupts.  Because this is… this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him.  And Tim would go to Hell and back if it meant having Dick Grayson as a big brother. “No, it’s… I always wanted a brother.”

(Tim doesn’t remember wanting another sibling, but he does remember thinking it would be nice to go live with the acrobats at the circus.  And that’s basically the same thing, at least in this situation.)

Dick smiles, and leans in for a careful hug.  “I’m going to stay in town for a while, yeah?  I might have to go with the Titans for a little bit here and there, but I’ll stick around until you get better.”  He leans in, conspiratorially, “I mean, you have no idea, but Alfred has made about half a dozen batches of cookies.   _So many_ cookies, Tim.”

Tim laughs, and Dick grins, standing. “I’m going to go tell Alfred you woke up, he’ll probably want to come down.  Do you need anything?”

“My Dad-”

“Has been informed that you are on an all-expenses paid trip to visit a California college with ties to the Wayne Foundation and its scholarships,” Dick said.  “He won’t worry.”

Relieved, Tim settles back, “Thanks, Dick.”

“Sure,” Dick turns to leave.

It’s like a lightning bolt strikes Tim and he remembers, “Where’s Bruce?”

Dick pauses by the door, tenses a little.  “He’s still on patrol, but he should be back soon.”

Tim chews on the inside of his cheek.  “Is he mad?”

He can’t see Dick’s face, but the other boy ducks his head to the side and mutters something before turning around. “Tim, what happened wasn’t your fault.  Joker… well, if Joker wants to get his hands on someone, it usually happens sooner or later.”

“Is he mad?” Tim said again, trying to raise the level of his voice above a whisper.  Dick had to understand… if Bruce was upset, Tim needed to know.

“He wants to up your training,” Dick said.  “He’s… mad at himself, not you.”

(It doesn’t matter, Tim has to be better.)

“I’m going to go get Alfred, okay?” Dick says after a moment.  Tim nods and Dick leaves.  

Tim’s so tired, but he wants to be awake when Bruce gets back from patrol… maybe he can help with whatever new case Bruce has, to show he’s not a complete failure.  

But whatever pain medications Alfred has him on wins out.  Tim falls back asleep.

In the middle of the night, when he wakes up gasping from a nightmare of laughter and knives and Jason’s screams, someone is there to soothe him and sit with him until he falls back asleep.

And in the morning, the smell of Bruce’s aftershave still hangs over the room.

 

* * *

 

“This is _pathetic_ ,” Tim mumbles.  

It’s just that, with all the big cases they get, sometimes he forgets that the majority of the criminals in Gotham aren’t the brightest.  Like yeah, there’s the few ones who know twenty terrible ways to kill you and have genius IQs and snazzy deathtraps and whatnot.  But for the most part, your average Gotham criminal is just an idiot with a gun.

The annoying part is that idiots tend to have a lot of idiot-friends.  And yeah, Tim could take out twenty-five idiots one-on-one no problem, but all at once?  Someone’s going to end up clocking him in the head with something heavy.

Apparently the weapon-runners are smart enough to know that killing Robin is a no-no.  But they’re also stupid enough to think that handcuffing his right hand to a pipe is going to keep him stuck.

“Morons,” Tim grumbles.  Although, he’s mostly just annoyed with himself.  Batman got a tip-off that this group would be off on a drop tonight.  The plan was that Bruce would distract and hopefully catch some of them at that site.  Tim’s job was to get into their base and gather intel.  

Well, Tim got into their base.  But apparently someone found out that the Bat was onto them, and the whole crew was desperately trying to clear out the warehouse they had been using as a base.

So when Robin dropped into their midst, they freaked out a little.

Tim fishes a lock-pick out of his belt and pops open the handcuffs.  They left him in an office, and he can’t find anything of use inside of it.  Oh well, sure to be some evidence outside.  

At the moment, his plan is to take out the guards (if there are guards) and sneakily take out everyone else.  Ninja-style.  Which, now that he knows how many of them there are (and that they’re actually, you know, _not_ off fighting Batman at the docks), it should be easier.

Creeping over to the door, Tim fits the lock-pick into the lock and quietly gets it open.  Taking a deep breath, he slowly opens the door a peek and looks outside.

There’s no one out there.

_Idiots_.

Tim opens the door and slips into the main floor of the warehouse.  Not only is there no one outside of the door, but there’s no one that he can see in the place _at all_.  There are tables stacked high with guns and crates everywhere, but none of the weapons smugglers are packing up or getting ready for a drop.  

_Maybe they freaked out and left_ , Tim thinks.  He slowly walks forward, still aware that someone could be hiding in the shadows and ready to ambush him.  The group had already been trying to pack things up when he surprised them… maybe they just decided to cut loose and leave?

“They left all the guns though,” Tim mumbles to himself, turning in a wide circle.  “Even if they were worried about selling them now that Batman knows… that’s still evidence right?”

And he doubts that the criminals took the time to wipe the place down for fingerprints or vacuum for stray hairs.  Surely some of them are already in the system… and it won’t take long before a few hits leads to the whole gang.

_Seriously, this is so dumb._

As he scans the room, Tim spots a computer sitting on a folding table.  He heads over, hoping against hope that it’s actually useful and not just a remnant of when this place was actually functional.  

The computer’s locked, but Tim’s Robin, and it only takes him a few minutes to get into it.  Clicking rapidly through the files, he realizes that this actually _is_ where all the specs and details about the weapon-smugglers are.  Pulling a jump drive from his utility belt, he pops it into the drive and starts copying files.

He has a bad feeling about this though.  Even the dumbest criminals usually know that leaving around a computer that’s filled with all your information is a bad idea.  So why-

_Beep_.

The noise is so soft, he almost misses it.  

Tim turns, scanning the row of crates behind him.  Was he just imagining it or…?

Propped up against a large box (helpfully marked ‘gunpowder’) is a bomb.  It’s sprawling and messy and probably the best that the smugglers could have cobbled together.  But it suddenly makes a lot more sense as to why they just left everything in the warehouse.  They weren’t planning on anyone finding any evidence because all the evidence would be cinders.

(They were going to blow Robin up in an abandoned warehouse).

Doesn’t explain what made the beep though.  Tim steps closer to take a look, narrowing his eyes until he spots the small flashing clock at the very top of the bomb.

_0:49_

It must have beeped once it hit the one minute mark.

_0:47_

Tim whips around and grabs the jump drive out of the laptop (without safely disconnecting it, because he’s a rebel).  He jumps over the table and pulls his grappling gun off of his belt.  There’s a walkway up by the high windows of the warehouse- it has railings and he aims for those.  

Flying through the air will never _not_ be thrilling to him, but he can’t take the time to enjoy it.  Not with that bomb ticking down.

He struggles for a moment ( _three seconds lost_ ) to open the ancient windows of the warehouse, and then peeks outside.  

The next building over is shorter.  Which means he can’t grapple over.  And if he tries to just jump he’ll never make it.  

Tim looks around, trying to remain unfazed.  There’s a pipe running down the length of the warehouse… he can slide down that and then grapple up.

_But does he have the time?!_

It doesn’t matter.  He can’t do anything else.  

Tim lunges from the windowsill to the pipe, his left hand grabbing it fast.  It shakes and sways dangerously, making him realize that this pipe could be older than him.  

Carefully, he allows himself to drop a little bit at a time, going as fast as he can.  It seems to take ages ( _how long is left on the clock?_ ) but he finally makes it to the point where he can grapple to the other building.  

Holding onto the pipe with one arm and his legs, Tim fires the grappling gun at the other building.  It lands and pulls him forward, until he’s skidding and rolling to a halt on the other rooftop.  

“I made it,” he mumbles, looking dazedly at the sky.

The warehouse explodes.

The shock-wave throws Tim across the rooftop of the neighboring building, and he hits the concrete once, twice, three times before he comes to a stop.  

Not daring to open his eyes, Tim takes inventory.  He can move his legs, although they’re pretty scraped up.  He’s breathing, although he might have a couple cracked ribs.  His right shoulder hurts, might be dislocated, but his arms work too.  

_You’re alive_.

Tim carefully sits, then stands, wincing a little.  He looks across the street to the burning warehouse and gives a long whistle.  

“ _Robin- ztzk - in wher- zzkt_.”

“Batman?” Tim taps the comn in his ear, but it must have been damaged by the explosion.  Crap.  He’s got to find Bruce.  

The sound of sirens leads him to the front of the warehouse.  Firetrucks are mobilizing, and it looks like some of the GCPD is there too.  And, luckily, Jim Gordon is arguing with a familiar figure.

“Batman!” Tim calls as he makes his way towards them.  He pushes through police officers and skids to a halt in between his mentor and the police commissioner.  “The smugglers got a tip off and they were clearing house, but I managed to get a jump drive-”

And then Tim’s being crushed against Bruce’s kevlar suit and it takes a moment for him to process.  

Bruce is.... Hugging him?

_Bruce is hugging him_.

Tim basks in the moment for a second ( _you’re Robin_ ) before a pain in his chest makes him gasp out, “Ow, B, ribs!”

Bruce relaxes his grip a little, but he hangs on to Tim for another few seconds.  Placing his hand on Tim’s left shoulder, he moves back and step and ducks a little so that he and Tim are eye to eye.

“Don’t you _ever_ scare me like that again.”

Well aware that Jim Gordon and about half the GCPD is watching, Tim flushes.  But then he realizes that Bruce isn’t chastising him, he was _worried_.  His hands are shaking a little bit and his mouth is a thin line.  Tim nods, “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

(And then he realizes that Bruce must have thought he had been in the warehouse when it went up.  Just like Jason.  But Jason was Bruce’s son and Tim is…?)

( _Tim is Robin_.)

“We’re glad you’re alright, son,” Gordon pats Tim’s shoulder and gives him a smile.  “Was there anyone inside that you know of?”

Tim shakes his head, “I dropped in on the smugglers… they found out we knew about their plans and were clearing base.  I- um- they got the drop on me, and by the time I got free they had all vanished.”

Gordon nods, looking relieved, “Well at least we can tell the GCFD they don’t have to send their men inside to look for anyone.”

“Before I found the bomb though, I managed to get this…” Tim wiggles the flash drive out of his utility belt and offers it to Gordon.

Before Gordon can reach forward, Bruce snatches it out of his hand.  The commissioner looks at Batman with raised eyebrows.

“Give me a week,” Bruce grits out.  “There won’t be a single one of these scumbags left in Gotham.”

Gordon looks at Bruce for a second, then his eyes flicker to Tim and he nods.

(Tim doesn’t understand- is Bruce mad because he let them get away?)

(No, Bruce hugged him- he’s never done that before.  He wouldn’t do it now if he was mad.)

“We’re going home,” Bruce says.  He takes Tim by the shoulder (luckily not the one that might be dislocated) and steers the boy away from all the cops until they’re standing in front of the Batmobile.

Tim goes to walk over to his side, but Bruce stops him, “Are you hurt?”

“Um, maybe a couple of cracked ribs.  My right shoulder might be dislocated.  And they hit me pretty hard in the head, I might have a concussion.”

Bruce nods, his expression unreadable.  He watches as Tim gets into the car, and then gets in himself.  They drive back silently.

(Tim feels bad.  A Robin in an exploding warehouse.  Obviously Bruce is upset.  When he hugged Tim he was seeing Jason.  Part of Tim’s freaking _job_ is to make sure Bruce isn’t brooding about Jason- and then he goes and makes Bruce relive the damn experience.)

When they get to the Cave, Tim gets out of the car, expecting a lecture now that Bruce has pulled himself together.  

(This is going to be terrible, maybe he should see if he can hide out with Kon for a few days on the farm…)

Tim goes to sit in one of the chairs by the computer so that they can type up the case while Alfred checks him out.  Bruce shakes his head though, “Med-bay.”

Blinking in surprise, Tim looks up at Bruce, “It’s really not that bad…”

Bruce’s expression doesn’t leave a lot of room for argument though, and so Tim trudges off towards the back of the cave.

He hops up on the bed and peels off his domino.  Bruce comes in a second later, Alfred trailing behind.  Immediately, the butler gets busy, grabbing his first-aid tools and rummaging in the cabinets.  

“I’m going to go check this out,” Bruce says, holding up the jump drive.  “You okay?”

“Yup,” Tim says. “I don’t know how much of the files copied over though-”

“It’ll be fine,” Bruce says reassuringly.  He ducks out of the room, leaving Tim at Alfred’s mercy.

“It sounds as though you had quite the explosive night,” Alfred says with a dry smile.

Tim laughs, “You’re as bad as Dick.”

Alfred takes care of his ribs and the various cuts and scrapes Tim received in his rooftop fall.  When he pops Tim’s shoulder back into place, Tim doesn’t pass out (which is, you know, improvement of a sort).  In far too short of time, Alfred is packing things up, and Tim still has no idea what he’s going to say to Bruce.  The butler gives him a squeeze on the shoulder before heading out into the Cave.  

Tim sighs softly.  Bruce is probably going to come in soon and-

“Tim?”  Bruce knocks softly on the door before coming in.  He’s still in uniform, but his cowl is off.  He looks tired, Tim thinks.  

And Tim feels so guilty, that of course he just opens his big stupid mouth and starts blathering.  “Bruce, I’m so sorry.  I should’ve been able to take them out but I was stupid and didn’t check before I went inside and then I didn’t find the bomb until it was almost too late and I didn’t mean-”

“It’s not your fault,” Bruce says softly, sitting down beside Tim on the bed.  Tim looks at his hands, unable to meet Bruce’s eyes.  “Sometimes the odds are just terrible and that’s all there is to it.”

“I didn’t-” Tim takes a shuddering breath. “You thought that I was in… that I was in the warehouse when it went up.”

Bruce is silent for a long time, and Tim doesn’t know what else to say.  

“I did,” Bruce finally says.  And his voice is thicker than it normally is.  “And I was so scared, Tim.  But it wasn’t because of… it wasn’t because I was thinking about Jason.”

Tim’s head snaps up, and he looks at Bruce uncertainly.  In all his time as Robin, he and Bruce have never talked about Jason.  Tim has talked with Dick about him a couple times.  Sometimes Alfred will tell stories about Jason, before he gets misty-eyed and changes the subject.  Tim carries Jason with him everywhere he goes, but he has _never_ mentioned that to Bruce.  

“I was.  Thinking about Jason, a little, I mean,” Bruce admits, clearing his throat a little.  “But it was because I was terrified that _you_ were in his shoes.  I have spent _years_ thinking about how scared and hurt and alone Jason must have felt in his final moments, and the idea of _you_ feeling like that…” Bruce trails off.

Bruce looks up, meets Tim’s gaze.  “I know I’m not good at talking about these things.  And I know that… that I’ve been harder on you than I ever was with Dick or Jason.  Harder, maybe, than I had a right to be.  But you have become as dear to me as they are.  You are Robin, Tim.  In every respect.”

Tim is speechless.  His mouth isn’t hanging open, but it might as well be.  The idea that Bruce cares about him as much as Jason, as much as Dick is… it’s…

“You’re welcome to stay the night,” Bruce says, as he gets off of the bed. “Just in case sneaking back to your house would be too hard on your shoulder.  

His mentor is stepping through the door to leave when Tim finally regains his voice.  “Bruce?”

Bruce pokes his head back in with a quirked eyebrow.  

Tim feels a small smile starting to spread over his face.  “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Bruce flashes him a tired grin and heads off, presumably to work on the case some more.

Alone in the med bay, Tim sits on the bed for a moment.  He’s still smiling, and there’s a warm feeling of pride that’s spreading through his chest.  After a moment, he hops to his feet and heads off to change.  He’s not thinking about how he’s going to explain his injuries to his dad or finishing up the smugglers case; he just keeps replaying Bruce’s words over and over in his head.

( _He really_ is _Robin._ )

 

* * *

 

As Tim Drake, he pops up in the media on occasion.  

As Tim Drake- _Wayne_ , sometimes he feels like it’s all he can do to stay one step ahead of the paparazzi.

It’s a relief to be in Bruce’s cool office, where no one will come bother him.  Just a son hanging out with his father on the weekend.  Admittedly, his father is the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, and Tim’s working on blueprints for additions to the Redbird, but _still_.  Kind of normal.  

Bruce is off getting them lunch and snacks after Tim finally convinced him that if he didn’t get a milkshake in the next thirty minutes he might _literally die_.  

Tim is curled up with his laptop on the couch in a little alcove to the left of Bruce’s desk.  He tabs between the blueprints, a Knights game, and some case notes on Mr. Freeze’s latest string of crimes.  That’s what he and Bruce will really be working on when they leave the office.

Freeze must be really pissed.  Or, that’s the theory that they’re running with at least.  He’s been targeting prominent people and destroying the things they love most.  Bruce used to say that Freeze only had two modes: the cold scientist who stole things to finance his attempt to save Nora, his wife, and the grieving husband who leveled the city when things turned south.

(Tim used to think it was really sad.  Tragic, even.  Freeze just wanted to save the only person he ever loved.  Of course, then he gets his first case of hypothermia chasing the guy, and that makes it a little easier to punch him out when they meet.)

The file’s pretty thin so far.  Freeze has only gone after a few people, but he’s going to keep going until someone stops him.  

They almost managed to get him last night at the Mayor’s manor.  He managed to escape.  But the mayor’s son survived, which was the important thing.

The only good thing to come of the case is that Dick decided to come help out.  Once they catch Freeze, they’ll probably have a big family dinner with Barbara and Cass too.  Maybe even Helena.  

Tim is snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of the office door opening.  He closes his laptop and stretches a little.  “Please tell me you remembered fortune cookies.”

There’s only silence.  And not Bruce’s ‘I-forgot-the-fortune-cookies’ silence.  

Feeling vaguely unsettled, Tim puts his laptop down next to him and stands, peeking out of the alcove.

_Oh shit_.

Mist rolls into Bruce’s office, partially obscuring his vision of the figure in the doorway.  But Tim sees the bright red eyes and _he knows_.  The figure strides into the room, confirming his suspicion.

Mr. Freeze is tall, thanks to his looming mechanical suit.  His pale face is thin and angled and devoid of any emotion.  His pupiless red eyes scour the room until they land on Tim, standing partially behind a wall.  His eyes narrow slightly and he shifts so that Tim can see his hand- and the heavy gun it holds.  Mist curls out of the barrel and frost clings to its surfaces.  Bruce has an older model in the Cave.  

Tim’s first instinct is to tense into a fighting stance.  But then he remembers that he’s not Robin, he’s Tim Drake-Wayne right now.  

Freeze isn’t after Batman, he’s after Bruce Wayne.

So Tim relaxes and backs away until he hits the back wall- which in Bruce’s office is the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a gorgeous view of Gotham.  “Look, Mister, they moved your wife to a different facility like a year ago.  She’s not here.”

Freeze stalks into the large office and Tim’s eyes flicker to Bruce’s desk, just a couple of yards to his right.  There’s a button that’ll call security (although Bruce has never used it because of the whole being Batman thing).  Tim edges towards it, praying that Freeze will just think he’s cowering.

“Stop,” the gun is pointed at him, and Tim has stared down its barrel plenty of times before, but it’s a little different when he’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans, not his Kevlar-fortified suit.  

Tim holds his hands up, placating.  “Are you here to steal something?  My dad will be back soon and he-”

“You call him your father.”  It’s not a question, but Freeze is looking down on him, only a few feet away now.  

(And Tim’s first instinct is to berate himself.  Because yeah, of course Bruce is his dad.  But the ache from… from his _real_ dad dying rears, and he feels so damn guilty.  It’s his fault his dad died, but now he has Bruce so that makes it okay?  He doesn’t _really_ feel that way but it’s just so _hard-_ )

Tim forces himself to focus.  “Um.  Yeah.  That’s kinda to whole point of the adoption thing.”

Freeze nods to himself.  His hand tenses around the gun.

And Tim tends to be a little slower on the emotional side of things, yeah, but it suddenly hits him and he feels stupid.  He remembers the mayor hugging his son last night as they chipped him out of the ice.  

Freeze isn’t here to make small-talk with Tim while they wait for Bruce.  Freeze is here to make Bruce Wayne suffer, to take away what Bruce loves most.  And the thing Bruce loves most in the world…

( _Robin._ )

Tim lunges for the desk and the security button.  The gun goes off and he hears the sound of ice cracking and crystallizing behind him.  He crouches behind the desk, desperately poking around for the damn button.  He knows it’s on the right side somewhere, but where…?

The desk suddenly flies away from him and Tim raises his hands over his head, ducking down.  Freeze throws the desk off to the side, like it’s a paper airplane, and it crashes into a pillar before falling to the floor.  

Tim lowers his arms just in time to see Freeze’s hand reaching down for him.  He scrambles back, but Freeze grabs him by the front of his shirt and lifts him until his feet are dangling above the floor.

“You think,” Freeze says, his usually monotone voice suddenly thick with a cold fury. “That you can beat _me_ ,  boy?”

(And it really takes all of Tim’s self-control not to snap back that yeah, because he’s _done it_ about a dozen times before.)

He throws Tim, just like he threw the desk, and Tim only has time to think, _This is gonna hurt like a mother-_

Tim slams into the pillar, sliding to the floor as all the air is knocked from his body.  He tries to get up, knowing that he has to _move_ , but then there’s a blast of white and he’s stuck.

Pinned to the pillar by a thick layer of ice, Tim can move his head and his shoulders, but that’s about it.  The cold sets in immediately, and he gasps for air.

“Now stay _put_ until Wayne re-”

“They didn’t have the fortune cookies, so it’s not _my_ fault this time-”

Bruce walks into the room, taking in the ruined desk, the ice coating his windows, and Tim and Freeze both staring at him from across the room.  Bruce is holding his phone limply in one hand and a carryout bag and a drink tray of milkshakes in the other.

“Mister Wayne,” Freeze says.  “About time.”

Lifting his phone up to his ear, Bruce says quietly, “I’m sorry, Dick, but I’ve got to go.  Love you bunches.”

(And Tim immediately feels a little better because Dick will save them, of course he will.)

Bruce hangs up and slips the phone back into his pocket.  He carefully places the food on the floor and then walks towards Tim and Freeze slowly, hands up.  “How can I help you, Victor?”

Freeze doesn’t seemed threatened by Bruce, and he walks away from Tim, turning his back to them as he faces the window.  Bruce immediately darts over to Tim, kneeling beside him.  “Are you alright?”

“I-I’m c-c-cool,” Tim says through chattering teeth.  

Bruce grimaces (whether it’s at the pun or the shitty situation, Tim can’t tell) and looks over to Freeze.  “Let him go, Victor.  I’ll give you whatever you want, just get him out before he… please.”

Unresponsive, Freeze continues to stare out the window.  Bruce rises, his hands balling into fists.

“Do you know,” Freeze says, turning back to face him.  The gun gleams, deadly, in his hand. “How _relentless_ this infernal world is?  It will spin itself into oblivion.  Time never ceases.  Nothing can _ever_ just _remain_ ,” he lifts his gun, letting loose a blast of ice that freezes the doors to the office. “Frozen.”

Bruce’s face is impassive, but Tim can see something shift in his eyes.  “I just heard that Nora’s cryogenics were tampered with, that it might have had ill effects on her-”

“Don’t you talk about her,” Freeze spits.  He thunders towards them, the gun clenched in his hand, his mouth a grim line.  “Don’t you _speak_ her _name_.”

Tim is very sure he should be worried about all of this, but right now he’s having a hard time staying awake.  Bruce crouches back down next to him, curls an arm around his shaking shoulders.  

“I’m so sorry, Victor,” Bruce says.  (And he is.  That’s the part of Batman that everyone glosses over- he wants the people he fights to get better.  He wants them to be happy.)  “I will do anything I can to help, just please save my son.”

(Will there ever be a time that Tim doesn’t feel a spark of warm pride in his chest whenever he hears Bruce say that?)

But Freeze is gone, lost in his own misery.  “Everyone in Gotham is going to know my suffering,” he hisses.  “Everyone is going to _feel my loss_.”

Bruce plants a kiss on Tim’s forehead, and stands.  Tim feels a sharp spike of terror for his adopted father, as Bruce seems ready to launch himself at the villain.

And then the windows shatter.

Bruce throws himself over Tim, shielding him from the glass.  Tim hears Freeze yell something, and then a familiar and welcome laugh.

“N-Nightwing,” he says, a goofy grin on his face.  Nightwing’s the coolest.  How does he even handle being so awesome?

(It’s possible, some detached part of Tim thinks, that the hypothermia has made him a little loopy.)

“I figured Dick would know something was wrong,” Bruce says, as he pulls away.  He starts pulling at the ice surrounding Tim.

“‘L-Love you b-bunches’,” Tim recalls, snorting.  “T-That’s your secret c-c-code?”  

Bruce manages to tug loose a chunk of ice, and Tim can wiggle his right shoulder again.  “Well, I was prepared for the dangers of a hungry teenager, not a supervillain.”

A beam of ice shoots over their head and Freeze is raving furiously.

“Is N-Nora gonna be o-o-okay?” Tim stammers.  His eyelids feel like they weigh a ton and he knows that falling asleep right now is pretty much a surefire way to slip into death.

Nodding, as he wrenches back another chunk of ice, Bruce says, “Someone managed to break into the facility where they’re keeping her.  Lexcorp is my best guess.  They were fiddling with the controls.  Night security scared them off and nothing too bad happened, but it’s possible that there may have been… ramifications.  They just released the story.”

“P-P-Poor Nora,” Tim whispers.  He can’t feel his lips all that well, and he’s uncomfortably reminded of when he got his wisdom teeth out.  

“Stay with me Tim,” Bruce mutters as he frantically claws at the ice.  

“‘m tryin’.”

He’s not shaking very much anymore, and a distant part of his brain remembers that’s a bad sign.  Bruce is poking at him… saying something.  

Dick swims into focus, looking worried.  He’s mouthing something, cutting through the ice, but it’s so hard to keep focused…

The darkness swims around Tim and he lets it drag him down.

 

The same dream he’s been having ever since he became Robin.  Although it’s been awhile since he was messed up enough that his brain conjured it for him.  

Jason’s not smoking this time, but reading a beat-up copy of _The Outsiders_.  He doesn’t glance up as Tim approaches the edge of the roof, and he doesn’t say anything as Tim drapes himself on the concrete border.  

“Ugh,” Tim says.

The other Robin sighs and closes the book.  It’s strange, because when Tim first started as Robin, Jason (and thus, his apparition in Tim’s dreams) was older than him.  But now, Tim’s older than Jason.  

(Older than Jason will _ever_ be.)

“Hypothermia’s a bitch, huh?”

“I’m even tired in this dream.  How is _that_ possible?” Tim mumbles.  He watches the street down below, the cars and lights zooming by.

Jason snorts.  “You’ll be fine.  It would be _so_ uncool if you got taken down by Freeze.”

“Yes, _that’s_ what I’m worried about,” Tim rolls his eyes.

“Just sayin’.”

Tim groans again.  The cold has leeched even into his dream, and he thinks that’s a good thing.  If he were dead, he wouldn’t be cold at all, right?  He opens his mouth and-

“If you’re about to ask me some question about death, I will again remind you that you’re talking to your own brain,” Jason says snidely, opening his book again.

“ _Duh_.  The real Jason was cool.  You’re annoying as hell,” Tim mumbles.

Jason snorts.  Using his pixie-booted foot, he rolls Tim off the roof.

Tim doesn’t mind though.  He’ll just wake up in some other dreamscape.  But for now, it feels nice, with the wind rushing around him and the sensation of falling, falling, falling…

 

Tim comes to, a part of him still feeling like he’s tumbling through the Gotham sky.  He blearily looks around and realizes that he’s in an ambulance.  He’s swaddled in blankets and there’s an IV plugged into his arm.  An EMT sits next to him, scribbling frantically on her clipboard.

He opens his mouth to talk when a shiver runs through him, shaking his body so hard the IV bag swings.

The EMT looks over, and her face brightens.  “Welcome back to the land of the living!”  Her worried face betrays the jokey tone she’s trying to convey, and Tim doesn’t really feel like thinking about how close he came to death this time.

“Bruce?” he says instead.  

“Of course,” the woman sets down her clipboard on a cabinet and moves towards the closed doors at the end of the ambulance.  “He got nabbed by those vultures, but he’ll be back to see you in a sec.”

She opens the door and hops out.  Tim eyes the clipboard, which she left lying in his reach.  He really shouldn’t peek.  If only because it would mean taking his arm out of the cocoon of blankets he’s in.  

But, his insatiable curiosity wins out, and he manages to wriggle out his right arm, trying not to disturb the IV in the crook of his elbow.  A rush of seemingly frigid air blasts him, and Tim shudders, his flailing arm knocking the clipboard off of the cabinet.  Now it’s on the floor.

Tim curses.

The doors of the ambulance open again and Bruce steps inside.  He immediately takes in Tim’s flopping arm, his expression of guilt, and the clipboard on the floor.  Scooping up the clipboard, he sits where the EMT was moments ago.  

“Let’s see what we have here…” he starts flipping through pages, angling the paper so that Tim can’t see.  

“ _Bruuuuuce_ ,” Tim whines.  Chuckling, Bruce turns so that they can look at the chart together.  Tim’s head rests on Bruce’s hip, and Bruce has his arm curled around Tim’s shoulder.

“Did N get F-Freeze?” Tim asks after he skims over the notes the EMT made.

Bruce nods, his expression darkening.  “Freeze is in custody now.  I have half a mind to-”

“Bruce,” Tim interrupts before he can start muttering threats.  “N?”

“Oh.  Yes.  Nightwing disappeared before the media arrived.  In unrelated news, Dick is on his way, as are Alfred and Cassandra.”

Tim snorts at that.  Another shiver hits him and he asks, “E-EMT said you w-were talking to the n-news people?”

Bruce scowls.  “They arrived with the police and the ambulances.  You needed to get medical attention right away, and I was worried that they would swarm us and waste time.  I went out first so that the EMTs could take you out the side.”

“I can’t b-believe you took on Gotham media for me,” Tim grins. “I f-feel honored.”

“It was worse than fighting Freeze, I’ll tell you that.”

Tim laughs, and then fall into a comfortable silence.  He’s almost drifted off again when Bruce says softly, “I’d really rather if I only had to worry about you getting hurt at the other job.”

Tim rolls his eyes at that.  “Well, I guess you could give up all your money and we could live in a box.”  Another shiver wracks him and he keeps going, “O-Or you can k-keep doing all the g-g-good stuff you do with W-Wayne Enterprises, and d-deal with a nut-job once or t-twice.”

Bruce sighs.  He gives Tim a half hug with the arm he has wrapped around his shoulder.  “I’m glad you’re okay, son.”

( _Son._ )

Tim smiles a little as he lets Bruce mess with the blankets surrounding him.  “Thanks, dad.”

 

* * *

 

Tim is…

It’s a fill-in-the-blank with no answer.  Tim’s so wrapped up with everyone else’s fallout that he has no time to even consider what he’s feeling.

(Tim doesn’t really _want_ to consider what he’s feeling.)

Alfred is as broken as Tim’s ever seen him.  He does his best to hide it, but there’s a constant mistiness to his eyes now, a sudden tiredness that Tim has never seen before.  The house is overflowing with stress-baked cookies that no one feels hungry enough to eat.

Dick is faltering.  Tim can tell that his older brother feels like he needs to take charge, to keep them together.  But every time he starts speaking, Tim can see the guilt cloud his eyes, the pain drag him back under.  Tim’s almost glad that Dick’s knee is still messed up- he doesn’t want to think about Nightwing patrolling Gotham alone like this.

And Bruce is…

Bruce is _shattered_.

He hasn’t gone on patrol since he put the Joker back in Arkham.  Not a real patrol anyways.  Sometimes he goes out and beats the hell out of a few muggers, but mostly he just sits in the Cave and stares at Jason’s memorial case.  The last time Tim saw him, his eyes were bloodshot and he hadn’t shaved in at least a few days.  Alfred says he hasn’t been eating.  Tim doubts he’s been sleeping.  

Tim wants to fix things.  He wants to fix things so badly.  That’s his job right?  He knows that this isn’t how things are supposed to be, so doesn’t he have a responsibility to try and fix it all?

( _Replacement._ )

Alfred is in the kitchen, making peanut butter cookies (Jason’s third favorite, after chocolate chip and white chip and macadamia nuts).  Dick has headed over to Barbara’s, and Tim hopes that she can help him, especially because he knows he can’t.  Not when he’s a reminder of _why_ Dick is faltering so badly.  

Bruce is down in the cave.  Tim will have to sneak past him to get out, but that’s… that’s not going to be a challenge.  Not right now, anyways.

(He knows this is stupid.  But the nine-year-old who worshiped Batman and Robin is still inside of him, steadily chanting, “ _This is wrong_ ”.  Tim believes in Robin like he believes in nothing else and he _knows_ deep inside that this is just a misunderstanding.  That he can _fix_ this.)

He gets in his costume and looks at himself for a moment without his mask.  

( _Pretender_.)

Tim slips on his domino and quietly heads for his bike.

 

They’re lucky that Gotham’s criminal element seems to sense that something’s wrong- in a bad way, not in an ‘easy pickings’ way.  Aside from petty crimes, things have been pretty quiet, which is nothing short of a miracle.

(Tim thinks that if things weren’t doing as well as they were in the city, Bruce would snap.  Bruce would snap, and this time Tim wouldn’t be able to stop him.)

He follows the homing beacon, guilt churning inside of him.  He didn’t tell anyone about the tracker, didn’t tell them where it led.  Because he’s arrogant enough to think that he can set things right again, that he doesn’t need Bruce or Dick to look at him brokenly and tell him it’s _too late_.

(Tim willfully ignores that he was able to place the tracker because the person it leads to tried to kill him.  Tried to kill him twice, really.)

The warehouse he pulls up to is familiar… he thinks Riddler or someone used it as a hideout a few years ago.  Knowing how many booby-traps must be inside (knowing the new occupant), Tim has decided that sneaking in might not be the best option.

He breaks one of the windows, not bothering to try and be quiet.  He slips inside, landing in a bare office.  Drawing his cape in around him, Tim walks out of the office and into the main warehouse floor.  

It’s dark and quiet, but he knows that doesn’t mean that no one’s home.  Bats live in the dark.

(So do Robins.  In Gotham, anyway.)

Tim walks out to the center of the floor.  No traps spring, no guns blaze.  That gives Tim hope.  He clings to that hope as he stops, turning a wide circle and surveying the stacks of crates around him.

(Robin must be brave.)

He inhales sharply, readying himself for what comes next.

(Robin is brave and kind and smiles and _goodness_ and that _doesn’t go away_.)

“ _Jason_.”

Tim’s voice is quiet, but it ripples through the silent warehouse.  A couple of pigeons fly off, spooked.  Tim holds his ground, listening intently.

“Bad things happen to birds who leave the nest.”

The voice comes from behind him, dark and still somewhat amused.  

Tim screws his eyes shut, because there’s a part of him that’s angry and screaming and crying to be let loose.  But he’s going to fix this.  He believes.

He turns.

As Robin, Jason had been small, just like Dick and Tim were.  But now he stands in front of Tim, tall and broad-shouldered.  Dressed in a leather jacket and dark cargo pants, the only spots of color on him are the deep crimsons of his tee shirt and domino mask.

He’s not wearing the helmet - _the red hood_ \- and Tim can see his smirk.  His hair is still ink-black and it still curls in the front, although a part of it is now a stark white.

A gift from the Lazarus Pit.  

(If Tim could see Jason’s eyes now, would they still be teal blue?  Or would they be poison green, like Ra’s al Ghul’s?)

“I’m surprised,” Jason says after they’ve looked at each other for a moment.  He tosses something between his hands- Tim’s tracker.  He knew that Tim was coming.  “I thought that after our little get-together at Titans’ Tower you would’ve known to stay far away from the Big Bad Red Hood.”

Tim meets his gaze.  Because yeah, he’s still covered in the bruises and cuts Jason gave him in their fight, but there’s no way he’s going to show any weakness.  Jason’s angry and hurting, and Tim’s has to be careful if he wants to make things _right_.

(A part of him rages that Jason had no right to attack him, but he shoves that part away.)

“Well, technically, the first time you attacked me was as Hush,” Tim said.  “I mean, we all thought it was Clayface, but if what you told Bruce is true, then I have you to thank for this.”  He lifts his head, revealing the jagged cut on his neck from when Hush- when Jason- held a knife to it.

“Bingo, Replacement,” Jason throws Tim’s tracker in the air.  In one, smooth, practiced motion, he pulls his gun and shoots upward.

Pieces of the tracker rain down, landing at Tim’s feet.  Jason stalks forward a couple of steps, casually holding the gun at his side. “I’ve given you a hell of a lot of warnings, which makes this intrusion pretty damn stupid.”

“Two warnings isn’t a ‘hell of a lot’.”

Jason smirks again, “It is when you consider most people don’t even get one.”

(Tim hates this, it’s wrong, it’s not Jason, it’s not Robin, it’s _wrong_.)

He lifts his chin, gives Jason a hard stare. “You’re upset and you’re angry.  Bruce can help you.   _We_ can help you.  It’s not too late.  Please come home.”

Jason looks at him, and for a second Tim thinks he’s done it.  That it was that easy.  He imagines coming home and seeing everyone smile and being able to think about Jason again without wanting to punch something.

Jason snickers, interrupting Tim’s thoughts.  He looks at Tim, one hand covering his mouth and his shoulders shaking in amusement.  “Replacement,” he finally says. “Get this: I don’t _want_ your help.   _Fuck off_.”

Tim takes a bold step forward, opening his mouth (Jason just doesn’t _understand_ ).  And then Jason’s a blur of movement, shoving Tim back until he slams into the crates.  

“I’ll offer you some help though, since I’m a nice guy,” Jason says.  He leans in, looming over Tim.  “Get the fuck away from Bruce Wayne before _you_ end up in his collection of broken sidekicks.”

“You’re not _broken_ ,” Tim hisses, glaring up at his predecessor.  “You’re _Robin_.”

There’s a beat of silence.  

_Maybe I got through to him_ , Tim thinks, as he looks up at Jason’s blank face.

And then Jason throws a right hook so hard that Tim-

 

Before Tim even wakes up, he’s aware of the ache in his arms.  Groaning, he opens his eyes.

His hands are cuffed together over a pipe, leaving him hanging with his toes barely able to touch the floor.  The entire left side of his face feels like it’s on fire, and he curses as he realizes what happened.

“I was gonna use you for target practice,” Jason says.  He’s standing in front of Tim, hands in his pocket, and that same infuriating smirk on his face.  “But then I thought it might be kinda fun to see who’d find you first: Bats, or one of the other whackjobs.  I’ll give you a fair warning though- Bats has _really_ shitty timing.”

“Jason, what the _hell_?” Tim shouts.  Because he’s been patient and kind and now his own ragged hurt is starting to bleed through his calm.  “Why are you doing this?  Bruce misses you!  He hasn’t been out of the Cave since your showdown with him and Joker!  He just spends all day moping and-”

Jason steps closer and Tim can see the fury written all over his face.  “Do you think I give a flying _fuck_ how _Bruce_ feels?”

“He tried to save you, Jason,” Tim says softly.  

(And Tim knows this in the core of his very soul.   _Bruce would give_ anything _to save Jason_.)

“Oh my _God_ !” Jason shouts, throwing up his hands in exasperation.  “Newsflash!  I’m not mad because Bruce didn’t _save me_ .  I’m fucking _furious_ because Bruce let _the Joker live_!”

(Tim had heard Dick telling that to Alfred.  He hadn’t believed it.  Jason was Robin.  Batman didn’t kill.  And Jason knew that Bruce would never break his rule.  Jason had to know that giving Bruce that choice would destroy him.)

(And deep down, Tim _cannot accept_ that Jason would ever destroy Bruce.  That Robin would ever destroy Batman.   _Batman needs Robin._ )

“You’re asking him to do the one thing he can’t!” Tim says desperately.  Jason _has_ to understand.  “He could never kill the Joker- not for anyone!”

“Yes, well, I just think it’s really lucky for him that _I’m_ the one who got blown the fuck up and not Dickhead.”

“He wouldn’t do it for Dick either,” Tim says unwaveringly.  “Please, Jason.  You don’t have to _do_ this.  You were _Robin_.  You don’t need to be the Hood.”

Jason’s fist slams into Tim’s stomach, knocking all the air out of him.  His entire body flinches as he tries to curl in on himself.  Jason grabs Tim by the neck, forcing him to look into the white lenses of his red domino.

“I’m trying to be patient, because I get the feeling you’re _very_ slow.  Robin is _dead_ , Replacement.  And I’m going to keep killing and doing things _my_ way, because that’s the only way that works.  And if Bruce won’t get that through his damn head, then I’ll make him suffer for it.”

He holds him for a second more, and then lets go.  Tim swings a little, his arms aching.  He coughs, desperately trying to get air.  Above that, he hears Jason.  “Stay out of my way, Replacement.  Or it’ll be your turn to learn how _dying_ can get a guy a little heated.”

Jason turns, walking away from Tim.  

(Tim is…)

Tim can feel the burn in his arms, the ache in his stomach, Jason’s phantom grip around his throat.  He sees Alfred’s barely concealed tears and Dick’s guilty eyes, and above all else, he sees Bruce, staring brokenly at Jason’s memorial.  He remembers being a skinny little kid, the joy, the thrill he got from watching Robin fight, from watching _Jason_ fight.

And he can feel that childish belief in Robin (in _Jason_ ) crumble.  This isn’t some misunderstanding.  This isn’t a cosmic mistake.  This is just the end of one of the most important things in his life.

(Tim is heartbroken, furious, terrified, falling, confused, miserable, hopeless.)

He thinks about Bruce, constantly blaming himself for something that wasn’t his fault to begin with.  Refusing to sleep or eat or shave because he has been utterly destroyed.  Bruce will never take the memorial down or talk about a Jason who isn’t the son he loves.  Bruce will never go after the Red Hood because being around Jason- a Jason who tortures and murders and uses words like knives- _kills him_.

Jason is killing Bruce.  Slowly but surely.  

(Tim is _furious_.)

“ _Bruce loves you!_ ”

He screams the words at Jason’s back.  Hurls them with a deadly accuracy because Bruce will _never_ say them and _that’s not fair._

“He _loves_ you and so do Dick and Alfred and you’re _killing them_ , you selfish ass!”

Jason has stopped walking away and Tim feels a twisted sense of vindication.

“Just because Bruce won’t _murder someone_ for you doesn’t mean that you get a free pass to be a psychotic killer!  What you’re doing _isn’t right-_ it’s not justice and it’s sure as hell isn't going to change anything!”

Jason stands, utterly still.

“You think that you were the only person your death affected?  Bruce spent _months_ afterwards trying to get himself killed.  He locks himself in the Cave on your birthday.  And on the day you died.  And on the day you went on your first patrol.”

Jason’s turning back now, and Tim knows he should stop, but it’s like a flood; words are pouring out of him faster than he can create a barrier.

“Bruce loves you.  He’s never going to stop loving you.  No matter what you think.”

Now Jason’s standing in front of Tim again.  Tim’s shaking and he feels tears burning in his eyes and there’s a lump in his throat but he stares Jason down.

“He _loves_ you, and you’re destroying him.  It would have hurt less if you _stayed dead_.”

The silence drags on, the only sound Tim’s pant as he struggles to catch his breath.  

Jason hauls his fist back, but Tim’s ready for him this time.  He clips Jason in the chin with his boot, snapping his head back.  The movement makes his arms scream with pain as he swings, but it’s worth it to see the blood marring Jason’s face.  

Jason lunges for him again and Tim lashes out with his feet.  But there’s only so much he can do, and Jason finally manages to grab one of his legs.

“You want a cast to match Dickie’s?” Jason pants.  He _twists_ and Tim cries out as something in his leg snaps.  He struggles to kick at Jason with his other one, but the older boy is in too close, slamming his fist into Tim’s stomach over and over again.

“I don’t _want_ Bruce’s love,” Jason spits.  “His love didn’t _protect_ me, and it sure as hell didn’t _avenge_ me.  I don’t need _love_ from a man who’s let this city fester for _years_ without doing a damn thing about it!  Bruce is a delusional idiot and I’m through with him.”

Tim lifts his head, giving Jason a bloody smirk, “Then you’re the delusional idiot.”

Jason snarls in rage and whirls around, his kick landing on Tim’s rib-cage.  Tim bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out as he feels first one, then two ribs snap.  

(He would give anything to knock some sense into Jason now.  For not understanding, for being willing to make Bruce suffer the way he is.  For killing and burning and torturing his way across Gotham and using what happened to him as an _excuse._ For having the _audacity_ to think that _Bruce_ is the one to blame.)

Jason’s steps away from him, his back to Tim as he fiddles with something on one of the crates.  Tim struggles to ignore all of the sharp pains in his body, keeping a wary eye on Jason.  

With a grin, Jason turns back to him, “Wow, you even keep it in the same pocket I did!  That’s cute.”  

In his right hand, he waves Tim’s emergency radio.

Tim’s stomach drops, as he realizes where Jason is going. “Don’t,” he hisses.

“If I remember correctly,” Jason says teasingly, walking back over and literally waving the radio in Tim’s face.  “This first button will send an emergency signal to the cave.  But this _second_ button-”

“Jason-”

“This _second_ button will open up a direct line to the Batcomputer!  In the Batcave!  Where Bruce is sitting right this minute, mourning my unfortunate fall from grace.”

“Don’t you _dare_ speak to him,” Tim growls.  

Jason smiles at him beatifically.  And then he hits the button.  “Bruce?”

Tim prays that Alfred managed to pry Bruce out of the cave, that Bruce is on patrol, that Bruce is in the bathroom.  Anything to stop Bruce from having to hear Jason’s voice.

There’s a pause that seems to last forever.  And then Bruce’s voice, tinny and tired and small comes through the radio.  “... _Jason_?”

(And that’s the moment, the moment Tim realizes that he _hates_ Jason Todd.)

Jason smirks as Tim hurls obscenities at him, struggling against the cuffs.  “I didn’t think you’d remember me!  What with your forgetting to avenge my murder and all.  Anyways, I was just getting to talking to the new kid.  You know, the one you replaced me with, like three minutes after I died?  So, anyways, he kinda got his ass handed to him and you should probably come pick him up.  I mean, I’m sure he’ll be fine.  Unless you’re too late.  Again.”

Before Bruce can say anything else, Jason hits the button again, ending the transmission.  He looks at the radio sadly, “It’s a shame that there’s a tracking device in this thing, I’d love to keep it.  Y’know, just so I could call Bruce up and fuck with him every so often.”

“You _son of a bitch_ ,” Tim hisses.  “You absolute sack of-”

“Hey now,” Jason says, shrugging.  “The way I see it, this is your fault, Pretender.  Barging into my warehouse and demanding that I change my ways.  If you weren’t so shitty at your job, maybe it would have even worked!”

“No,” Tim says, soft and angry.

(And the worst part is, for once Tim actually believes that he didn’t screw up.  That it’s not his fault.  Jason is just _that_ broken and _that_ insane.  And somehow that’s even worse than any of the other scenarios he can imagine.)

“You keep telling yourself that,” Jason says.  “I, on the other hand, am off to murder some drug lords.  So you just sit here and think about what a miserable and abject failure you are.”

Jason turns and starts to walk away.  His voice drifts back to Tim, lazy but serious, “And I know I let you off easy this time, Replacement.  But next time we cross paths I won’t be so nice.”

“Me neither,” Tim mumbles, mostly to himself.  He thinks he hears Jason snort, but who knows.  He’s in a lot of pain and it’s starting to make things fuzzy.

( _This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.)_

_Yeah_ , Tim thinks dully, _it is._

He hangs there for some amount of time, he’s not sure.  Everything hurts and he can’t think of anything but Bruce’s broken voice as he said his son’s name.

“Robin?”

Tim lifts his head, confused.  “N?”

Dick barrels around the corner, skidding to a stop in front of Tim.  “Oh my God, Timmy…”

Even though Dick is as gentle as possible, Tim still cries out as his brother unlocks the cuffs and lowers him to the floor.  

“Tell me where you’re hurt,” Dick says.  Tim can tell he’s trying to keep his voice from shaking, although he doesn’t know if it’s because of anger or sadness or fear.  

“Broken ribs,” he says.  “Something in my leg too.  Lot of bruises.”

“And…” Dick looks down the darkened aisles of the warehouse.  “And....”

“Jason’s gone,” Tim whispers.  “I’m so sorry Dick, I shouldn’t have come…”

Dick hugs him, curling around him to avoid his wounds as much as possible.  “It’s okay, Tim.”

“I-I thought that I could make him understand,” Tim says.  And it’s easier to confess this to Dick, while his head is curled under his older brother’s chin.  Tears streak down Tim’s face, partly because of his injuries, and mostly because he feels so damn guilty.  

(How the hell is he going to explain to Bruce what happened?)

(And Tim knows that there’s a reason Dick is here, even with his bum knee.  Jason talked to Bruce and Bruce… what?  Tim doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to think about his own part in letting that happen.)

“And did he?” Dick says, softly.  He already knows the answer (already knew the answer) but he knows Tim needs to work it out for himself.  

“He understands,” Tim says, pulling out of the hug and letting his head hang beneath Dick’s chin.  “Not the way I wanted him to though.”  He squeezes his eyes shut, “I don’t know why I thought-”

“Because you saw what he used to be like,” Dick says.  And Tim feels a wetness on the top of his head, and he knows that Dick is crying too.  “Because you knew how brave and good and wonderful Jason used to be and you didn’t think that Joker and the Lazarus Pits could ever change that.”

Dick puts it into words so well that Tim feels a little less stupid, a little less naive.  

Still unforgivably stupid.  Still unforgivably naive.

(Jason was _Robin_ .  Jason was Tim’s _hero_.)

(Jason is a murderer.  Jason is _lost_.)

“Is it okay if I sedate you?  I need to carry you to the car and I don’t want to hurt you anymore than you’re already hurt,” Dick says, taking a deep breath.  

“Knock yourself out,” Tim says.  He’s pretty much on the verge of unconsciousness anyways.

“Knocking _you_ out, actually,” Dick says lamely as he fishes a tranq out of his gauntlet.  

(And it’s not until they try to act normally that Tim truly realizes that Jason casts a bigger shadow over them in life than he ever did in death.)

Dick hugs Tim close as he injects him.  And Tim’s glad that whatever else in his life goes wrong, at least Dick remains constant.

 

Tim is on the rooftop and it’s not a comfort this time.  

Jason- Robin Jason- is holding a cigarette in one hand and eyeing Tim warily.  He’s sitting in his normal spot on the edge of the roof, but tensed, like he’ll throw himself off if Tim comes any closer.  

“Can I just have a normal-person dream,” Tim mumbles, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes.  “For once.”

“I’m sitting right here, y’know,” Jason mutters.

“Yeah!” Tim shouts, throwing his arms wide.  “Exactly!”

“Well if you want me to leave, just tell me to fuck off!” Jason yells.  He stands, the cigarette still in his hand, his teal eyes fiery.  He stalks over to Tim and puts his hands on his hips, glaring up at the older boy.

And Tim looks at him.  This is the Jason he idolized, the one in all his pictures.  The Jason that Bruce mourns, the one he will never be able to separate from the boy who came back from the dead.  

This is the part of Jason Todd that stayed dead.

Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier though.  How can Tim look at this Jason and not remember the knife at his throat, the smirk, the barbwire words lobbed at Bruce?  And how can Tim look at the Red Hood, bring him to justice, if every time he looks at the criminal he sees a sad little boy in a yellow cape?

“Yeah,” Tim says softly, finally.  “Do that.  Get out of here.”

Tim has been annoyed with the Jason his mind conjured before, but he’s never tried to get him to go away.  Jason was such a big part of Robin (and therefore such a big part of _Tim_ ) that he never really ever thought about trying to get rid of him.

Jason looks up at Tim, his eyes smoldering with anger.  “Fine.  Ungrateful bastard.”

He walks back to the edge of the roof.  Stands there for a moment, looking over his shoulders.  

(And Tim knows that he could call Jason back, could let himself sink into denial.  Could let himself be like Bruce.)

Tim says nothing, watching as Jason stands there for a moment, his yellow cape flapping in the wind.

And then Jason simply steps off of the roof and is gone.

It should feel good or at least _right_ , but it doesn’t.  Tim gets the feeling that dealing with Jason now will always be like that- like they can’t stop him without muddying the memory of who he used to be.

Tim will get used to that.  He has to.  Bruce is compromised, maybe Dick is too.  If the Red Hood is ever going to get brought to justice, Tim needs to get serious.  

Taking on that responsibility doesn’t feel good though.  It’s full of nostalgia and bitterness and sadness.  But Tim’s not a little kid anymore, hasn’t been in a long time.  

Tim is Robin.

And Jason Todd is a criminal.

 

Tim wakes up feeling like the weight of the world is crushing down on him- and not just because of his broken ribs.  He groans, sitting up despite the pain.

“Glad to see you’re awake.”

Dick is sitting in a chair by the bed (‘sitting’ is a loose term- his limbs are all askew and Tim doesn’t understand how he’s not uncomfortable).  His phone is in one hand and there’s a book on the floor that seems to be about grizzly bears.

(Tim tries to ignore the fresh bandages wrapped around Dick’s injured knee and the dark circles under his eyes.)

“We’ve got to get some surveillance up on Hood’s operations,” Tim mutters, his thoughts racing.  “He’s been slippery, but we know some of his contacts… can start there.”

Dick has a wide-eyed look of alarm on his face. “Tim, you’re not going to try and talk to him again.”

“No,” Tim agrees.  He looks down at the sheets of the bed.  Moment of truth- will Dick stand with him?  “But Bruce isn’t going to do anything… if we want Red Hood brought in, or even just _contained_ we need to do it ourselves.”

Looking back up, he sees the sadness in Dick’s face.  But a moment later it’s gone, replaced by determination.  “Sounds good to me.  I’ll start making plans.  But you,” Dick stands, scooping up his book. “Need to get some more rest.  You took quite a pummeling.”

“Aw, come on!” Tim looks at Dick pleadingly.  “Get me some coffee and I’ll be good to go!”

Dick snorts, “Nice try, Timmy.  Alfred will be down with dinner and painkillers soon- try to nap until then?”

Tim grumbles and Dick smiles- just a small one, but still.  His big brother ducks out of the room and Tim is left to his injuries and his thoughts.

He has Dick.  He has a plan.  He is determined.

All in all, it could be worse.

But it still feels like a hollow victory.  

 

* * *

 

It seems like ever since Damian al Ghul popped up out of nowhere, Tim has spent every other weekend running around one of Ra’s al Ghul’s godforsaken compounds.  

(To be clear, this is just _one_ of the _many_ reasons that Damian is terrible.)

The current godforsaken compound that Tim is running through is lit with candles, shadows leaping over the stone halls.  Tim wonders why Ra’s refuses to use electricity.  Isn’t the whole point of having functional immortality the ability to adapt and change with the times?

A ninja is patrolling up ahead.  Tim whips out a bola and throws, not pausing as the ninja turns and then falls.  He leaves the cursing assassin behind, winding his way into the heart of the compound.

(Which is where Dick and Bruce will undoubtedly be.  Along with Ra’s al Ghul’s stupid giant EMP thing.  And along with Ra’s al Ghul himself.  And probably like a zillion ninjas.  And that little snot, Damian.)

Tim is not in the greatest mood.

(Oh God and he just _knows_ Ra’s is going to dangle the Lazarus Pit over his head again.  Last time he… well he fought Dick and almost thought about maybe trying to use the Lazarus Pit to bring back Steph and Kon and his dad.  Which he refuses to think about because if he does he’s either going to dropkick Ra’s into the sun or end up fighting Dick again.  Or possibly he might just start screaming.)

He bursts into the open air of a huge pavilion, bordered only by pillars, even though the ground is at least a hundred feet below.  As expected, there’s a large horde of ninjas between him and the EMP machine, which is situated in the center of the floor and pointed out towards the sea.  

Tim isn’t quite sure what Ra’s wants to do with the giant EMP thing, but he does know that whatever it is can’t be good.  And that the machine won’t be able to work if it’s exploded into a billion tiny pieces.

Out of the corner of his eye, he finds Dick and Bruce, chained up and hanging on one of the pillars.  They’re surrounded by guards and probably still a little out of commission from whatever Ra’s did to them.  

“Well,” a cultured voice drawls.  The ninjas part and the Head of the Demon himself strolls towards Tim with a small smile.  “I was wondering when you’d show up, Timothy.”

(It’s always ‘ _Detective_ ’ for Bruce and ‘Grayson’ for Dick, but Ra’s always calls him by his first name.  It’s creepy and annoying and makes Tim feel slightly like a small child.)

If Tim is going to get Dick and Bruce free and stop the EMP machine, he’s going to need a distraction.  And if that means punching Ra’s al Ghul, all the better.  

He whips his bo staff out of his belt, twirling it as he settles into a fighting stance.  The ninjas begin to unsheathe their weapons, and Tim’s thinking that all he has to do is hold on until he gets an opportunity to free Dick and Bruce, when Ra’s clears his throat.  The ninjas immediately stop moving, their heads turned towards their master.

“I admire Timothy’s courage,” Ra’s says grandly (kind of like he’s expecting Tim to gasp, like this is a big honor or something).  “I will face him myself.”

The ninjas back away, leaving a wide circle cleared for Ra’s and Tim.  The Head of the Demon smiles slightly as he removes his heavy green cape, leaving him in an elegant white shirt and dark pants that, while no doubt _very_ expensive, are still suitable for fighting.  He draws a scimitar from its place at his waist and looks at Tim, “I suppose I should know better than to offer you a sword?”

“I’ll stick with my bo,” Tim says.  It doesn’t matter.  Sword or bo staff, he can’t beat Ra’s al Ghul in a one-on-one fight.  All he can do is try to last until Bruce and Dick’s guards are distracted.  And maybe get in a couple good hits.  For his dad and Conner and Steph.  

“Pity,” Ra’s says, a cruel smile spreading across his face.  

(Tim is excruciatingly aware that he’s surrounded by hundreds of assassins, that Ra’s himself could pretty easily beat him into a pulp.  The only reason he’s alive is because Ra’s is like a cat with a mouse, wanting to toy more than eat.)

(Tim has a plan though.)

Ra’s lunges and Tim flips over him.  The sword slices through Tim’s cape, and he lands in a crouch, holding his bo staff behind him.  A quick look over his shoulder tells him that the assassins standing by Bruce and Dick are interested, but not yet as distracted as they need to be.

When Tim turns his attention back to Ra’s, the villain is already darting towards him, swinging his sword.  Tim ducks away, the blade coming far too close to cutting off his nose.  Ducking leaves him vulnerable though, and Ra’s kicks at his ribs, sending him toppling over.

Tim allows himself to keep rolling, to avoid the sword Ra’s plunges towards his heart.  He gets to his feet and strikes out, actually managing to nail Ra’s in the shoulder.  It’s not a hard hit, it’s not enough, but it overbalances him and Tim lunges.

The punch is sweet and satisfying (but not enough, no amount of punches could ever lift the pain of his dad’s smile, Conner’s laugh, Steph’s eyes, gone and gone forever, no matter what Ra’s al Ghul promises.)

Ra’s clutches his jaw, a small trickle of blood coming from his nose.  One of the countless ninja steps forward and Ra’s stops them with a wave of his hand.  His smile is sharper now.

They dance around the pavilion, Ra’s occasionally landing hits.  Tim looks over to Bruce and Dick constantly, and he knows that it’s hindering him.  But it’s so close to the right time, and he slips a birdarang into his hand.

_Now_.

Tim is ready to throw the birdarang, aiming so that it will sever Bruce and Dick’s chains.  

And then a high pitched voice comes from the crowd.

“ _I’ll_ save you, Father!”

Damian al Ghul pops out of nowhere (something that is happening way too often these days), darting towards Bruce and Dick with an eager smile and a sword that’s about as big as he is.  

The guards are on edge now.  Four of them fall back to the captives, and the rest move forward to fend off Damian.  Tim’s chance to free Bruce and Dick has been ruined.

And, to top it off, while he’s distracted, Ra’s swipes his sword along Tim’s right arm, forcing him to drop the birdarang.  Tim hisses and tries to step back, gripping his bo with both hands.  The blood coming from his right arm makes the staff slick, and he’s realizing that he’s going to have to fall back to Plan B.  And Plan B is terrible in all sorts of ways.  

He reaches into his utility belt and tosses all of his explosives at the EMP machine.  Ninjas leap up, slicing them out of the air and intercepting them, but a few make it through.  They detonate, taking huge chunks out of the machine.  It’s not completely destroyed, but it will do.

Ra’s al Ghul ignores the destruction of his machine and keeps pressing Tim towards the edge of the pavilion.  Tim would fight it more, but this is actually working out well.  He’s close to where Bruce and Dick are, where Damian is being manhandled away from the fight by his mother.  

Tim hits Ra’s with his staff in the left shoulder, hoping he might be able to dislocate it.  But Ra’s simply rolls with the hit, and lashes out with a kick that knocks Tim into a pillar.

His bo rolls away.  Ra’s lowers his sword until it hovers next to Tim’s neck.

“A noble effort to be sure,” Ra’s says. “You’ve set back my plans to topple the economy of Europe, but I believe this round goes to me.”

Tim snorts, just a little, because he really does hope that this pisses Ra’s off.  

He raises his head and smirks up at the Head of the Demon.  “You know what they say about counting your chickens before they hatch.”

Ra’s al Ghul’s dark brown eyes narrow slightly, and Tim raises his left hand.  Which now holds the detonator to the bombs he set around the support columns of the pavilion before he charged on up.  

He has just a second to savor the look of surprise on Ra’s al Ghul’s face before he presses the button.

The low rumble lets him know that Plan B is a success so far.

The part of the pavilion farthest from him starts to tilt, crumbling into the sea.  Ninjas are yelling and swarming towards the single exit.  The remains of the EMP machine slide towards the edge, a few loyal souls trying to salvage it.  

As the ground begins to angle beneath him, Ra’s looks down towards where Tim is still panting slightly from the fight, a small grin still on his face.

“Well played.”

The pavilion lurches beneath them, sending several unlucky ninjas falling into the sea.  Tim’s eyes flicker to Bruce and Dick- he needs to get to them.  But Ra’s…

When he turns back, the Head of the Demon is gone.  As unsettling as that is, the way that things have been going, Tim will probably see him next week.  

Hauling himself to his feet, Tim slides down to the pillar where Bruce and Dick are still chained.  Both of them stand on top of the tilted pillar so as not to fall, and Dick grins at him when he pulls himself up next to them.  “Nice work, Timmy.”

“Would’ve been a lot easier without the brat,” Tim mumbles (because _yeah_ he’s still mad about that).  He pulls out a pick from his belt and sets to work on Dick’s shackles.  

If Bruce hears or cares about what Tim said about Damian, he doesn’t show it.  His face is impassive as he scans the remaining ninjas.

“Ra’s slipped away,” Tim says, as Dick’s shackles finally open.  He moves towards Bruce, well aware that the pavilion is a few seconds away from sliding down a hundred foot cliff and into the ocean.  

“He usually does,” Dick sighs.  “Important thing was you got his doohickey.  And that we’re not going to end up as fish-food.”

“Batplane should be-” Tim is cut off by the arrival of the Batplane, which hovers to the left of the pillar, waiting for them.  

The shackles fall away from Bruce’s gauntlets, and he gives Tim a nod before throwing himself off the pavilion.

“Dramatic bastard,” Dick snorts.  And then, in typical form, he follows Bruce with a quadruple flip and a whoop.

Tim rolls his eyes.  

(Damian al Ghul doesn’t change anything.  They’re all still the same, everything’s the same.  Nothing’s going to change and Tim just has to get that through his thick head.)

With the smallest of smiles, Tim leaps off of the pillar in the moment before it follows the rest of the pavilion crashing into the sea.

 

Tim is typing up his report in the Cave, sipping on coffee and nibbling on some of the sandwiches that Alfred brought down, when Bruce comes up behind him.  “You did very well today, Tim.”

“Thanks,” Tim swivels the chair so he can look up at Bruce.  “I really hate trekking out to one of Ra’s al Ghul’s stupid bases every couple of weeks though.  Huge pain in the butt.  And ninjas aren’t very fun to banter with.”

Bruce smiles a little, but it’s tired.

(Tim _knows_ that Bruce doesn’t like Damian.  But how must is shake your world to find out that you have a son, that you have _had_ a son for an entire decade without knowing him?  And especially for _Bruce_ \- how hard must it be knowing that your son was raised by assassins?  That your son was raised to _be_ an assassin?  They have no idea how many people Damian has murdered, but Tim has no doubt that the number is gruesomely high.)

“I’ll send him a note,” Bruce says.  “Tell him that next time, he needs to come to Gotham.  Sound good?”

Tim snorts, starts to turn back to the computer.

Bruce gently grabs the back of the chair to keep Tim from turning away.  He meets Tim’s gaze, and gives him a reassuring smile, “We’re going to figure this all out, Tim.  I promise.  It’ll be okay.”

And while part of Tim feels like he’s thirteen again- gawky and awkward and in need of constant reassurance- he understands that Bruce is trying to be nice.  Bruce knows that this is weird and hard for him too, and he’s trying to make things better by doing what he does best- offering protection.

“I know,” Tim says, a warm rush of fondness and comfort hitting him.  “Thanks, B.”

Bruce smiles, stands, his hand slipping from the back of the chair to rest for a moment on Tim’s shoulder.

(And Tim doesn’t know it yet, but in almost exactly two months, Damian Wayne will be moving into the manor.)

(And Tim doesn’t know it yet, but only four weeks after that Bruce will leave with the Justice League for a mission on Apokolips.)

(Tim doesn’t know it yet, but in two months and four weeks, Batman will be dead.)

(His _dad_ will be dead.)

(And Tim doesn’t know it yet, but that won’t even be the worst thing.)

(The worst thing won’t be that Damian snarls at him every day or that Bruce leaves him or that _he’s Robin and he let Batman die_.  No.)

(The worst thing is that he’s not even going to be Robin three months from now.)

Tim smiles a little at the screen.  He can hear Bruce walking up the steps to the Manor, calling out softly for Alfred.  Dick is singing in the shower and Barbara is talking on a speaker to his left, monitoring a sleeping Gotham as Cass swings along the rooftops.  

Thing’s aren’t okay right now, not by a long shot.  Tim feels like his feelings are a sack full of broken glass, and any way he approaches them will probably just lead to getting cut.  No, things aren’t okay right now, but Tim trusts in Bruce.  He believes that things _will_ be okay.  

Tim trusts in Bruce.  He always has.

(He always will.)

 


End file.
